


high school is a lonesome thing

by rickortyadventures



Category: Rick and Morty
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe - High School, Arguing, Bullying, Gen, HASJSKS THATS KINDA A JOKE, High School, Intrusive Thoughts, Jealous Morty, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Negligence, OFC - Freeform, Protective Rick, Rick Being an Asshole, Self-Harm, Slow Burn, Suicidal Thoughts, Thoughts of Self-harm, accidental restricted eating but still, and a whole lotta anxietyyyy babey, anti john green, but also it works for the story, if u like douchey protective rick and shy but also a dick morty welll, injuries, its just a cheasy shitty high school au if u expect more u will be disappointed, just sayin, lonely morty, morty has like some shitty self esteem, ngl i kinda love jealous morty its so fuckin funny, restricted eating, u might not be as disappointed, we self projectin
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-08
Updated: 2020-11-27
Packaged: 2021-03-07 17:14:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 11,500
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26891248
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rickortyadventures/pseuds/rickortyadventures
Summary: Contrary to popular belief, Morty wasn’t stupid. He knew he was about as low on the totem pole as you could get, at least here in this high school. And probably most other places too, but a kid could dream right?Basically, Morty knows there isn’t a planet, hell not even a universe, where someone like Rick goes for someone like Morty. It just doesn’t happen.Especially because Rick Sanchez is straight. Like 100% on-the-football-team kinda straight.
Relationships: Rick Sanchez & Morty Smith, Rick Sanchez/Morty Smith
Comments: 37
Kudos: 111





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> hiya idk what this but !! its here now ! feel free to hmu on Tumblr or send requests (same @ as on here)

Contrary to popular belief, Morty wasn’t stupid. He knew he was about as low on the totem pole as you could get, at least here in this high school. And probably most other places too, but a kid could dream right?

Basically, Morty knows there isn’t a planet, _hell not even a universe_ , where someone like _Rick_ goes for someone like _Morty_. It just doesn’t happen. 

Especially because Rick Sanchez is straight. Like 100% on-the-football-team kinda straight. 

He’s also six and a half feet of lean muscle and flashing teeth. Messy blue hair and eyes so fucking cold they _hurt_ to look at. His hand are never free of damage, bruised and scraped to all hell, but it only adds to his appeal. 

Because Rick Sanchez is as dangerous as he is straight.

And Morty is Morty. 

A bullied queer kid who literally sounds like he came out of a shitty fucking John Green book. But a lot more boring and predictable because at least Green’s characters ended up having some kind of adventure. 

He doesn’t know why he can’t get over this fucking infatuation. Maybe it’s because Rick is really hot. Maybe he’s just so fucking lonely that he can’t stop fixating over the only popular kid who hasn’t treated him like trash. 

Maybe he’s a pathetic perverted little bitch. 

Someone knocks his shoulder roughly and he doesn’t have to look over to know it’s Frank. 

God, he really is tired of it all. 

He wonders why it is that so many people could hate him enough to torture him for actual years. It’s not like he’s gone out of his way to make their lives hell, nothing of the sort. But it’s fine. Because if there is one thing Morty has gotten very good at handling, it’s the physical bullshit. 

He always had a pretty high pain tolerance and all of this exposure has only made it higher. So when Frank’s hand wraps like a vice around his upper arm, Morty doesn’t flinch. He does wince however, when the back of his head slams into the nearest locker. Bits of black dance across the hall, over Frank’s face as it scowl down into Morty’s. 

_Jesus, his grip really isn’t getting any looser is it?_

“What in the fuck do you think you’re doing?” Frank snarls, shaking him by his scruff like a dog after a rat. “No-N-Nothing?” And he wasn’t, was he? Morty racks his brain for something, a weird face he might’ve been making, a sound, _anything._ He’s so fucking careful, there isn’t much of a chance he could have. 

“You gettin’ cocky on me, Smith?” The question isn’t the kind that needs an answer, beyond the slamming of Frank Palicky’s fist into Morty Smith’s jaw. 

_Hot, it’s so fucking hot._

It’s like a sun exploding across the side of his face, forcing his teeth into his cheek and filling Morty’s mouth with blood. _Yeah, that’s gonna leave one hell of a mark,_ he thinks ruefully, heels dragging against linoleum as the older teen forces him back against the lockers. The bell trills out a warning and Frank panics, letting Morty go, and heading towards his class with a scowl. 

Morty supposes he shouldn’t be surprised. He knows Mr. and Mrs. Palicky are wealthy and cruel, the type to notice, and punish, any sort of tardiness but turn a blind eye to their son’s sadistic streak. So yeah it kinda makes sense that Frank needs the escape hurting Morty provides. It isn’t that Frank is talkative in his bullying, Morty just has a habit of picking up on things like that. Little things, bits, and pieces of gossip were often spoken around him. One plus side to being damn near invisible, he supposes. 

He really shouldn’t be late either, actually. His grades, in everything but science, if Morty was being brutally honest, were concerning enough that even _his_ parents couldn’t remain oblivious for too much longer. Coming home today with the damage to his face and another teacher reprimand might be the straw that broke the camel’s back. 

Sighing through his teeth, Morty straightens his bag and tries to adjust his coat hood so that the already swelling jaw wouldn’t be quite as noticeable. 

It was going to be a long fucking day. 

⁂

By the time Morty gets to the only classes that don’t make his skin crawl and head ache, the day is almost at an end. Biology and then he only has English after and he can usually bullshit his way through that somewhat. The stabbing in his mouth has faded, the only reminder of Frank's anger, if he didn’t have to look in a mirror, was a dull ache when he opens his mouth up. 

_Maybe it’ll finally convince him to shut the fuck up._

There’s also the fact that Rick is in his English class. 

It’s so stupid. 

Beyond stupid. Pathetic really. 

It was a forty-seven minute period where Rick and Morty existed as deskmates. Where a few words and the occasional smile would be exchanged. And then Morty would carry on the rest of the day, feeling a good ten pounds lighter. A ridiculous high he can’t help but indulge in. And was it really such a bad thing if it didn’t hurt anyone?

He seems to move in a daze after that realization. All thoughts hazy and distant. Morty isn’t sure what he wrote down in his notebook and at this point, he’s too afraid to check. However, the prospect of his ridiculous crush talking to him was enough to banish the fog. 

_Stupid, stupid, stupid._

Once again he’s nearly late, but Rick is even later. He waltzes in a good five minutes into class, smelling so strongly of cigarette smoke Morty almost coughs, wheezes slightly trying to hold it in. Rick grins at their teacher, a middle-aged white guy with a ratty ponytail, eyes bright with challenge. 

Everything about Rick is so fucking harsh it makes something in Morty flinch. Even as it draws him in, like the bright colored allure of a poisoned plant. The challenge isn’t met. Of course, it isn’t. The class moves on as though nothing has occurred but something has. It’s a subtle reminder of who exactly is in charge. There’s no doubt that Rick is one controlling, narcissistic son of a bitch. If the rumors he’s heard are true. 

And Morty’s pretty damn sure those rumors are true. But Rick has also been nothing but polite to him. So he has no room to talk really. Not that you could _pay_ him to say a word of this out loud. 

Rick gives him a cursory once over as he leans back in his seat, but his gaze snags on the corner of Morty’s face. The now bruised chunk of jaw and cheek to be exact. Curiosity flickers across the blue-haired boy’s face, there and gone quickly enough that Morty’s pretty sure he imagined it. Rick's gaze settles on the chalkboard in front of them and Morty forces his to follow suit.

He can at least pretend to pay attention, damn it. 

But at the same time, it’s strange to sit next to Rick Sanchez in relative silence for almost an hour. It is even stranger when you have to do it nearly every day. He can feel the older teen’s _hum,_ an almost electrical buzz that seemed to pulse in something like a heartbeat. Maybe he was just _that_ charismatic. Maybe Morty was fucking batshit. His fingers drum irritably against his thigh, forcing his mind back to motifs in _Animal Farm._

Rick clears his throat only once during class, Morty snapping his head toward him in response. But Rick doesn’t say anything, just studies Morty with that vaguely curious look once more. It only lasts a few seconds, the length of the quiet lull right before the bell dismisses them. And it’s more than enough to make Morty’s heart race. 

_Pathetic._

Morty hurries to be one of the first out the door, ignoring Rick’s shark-like gaze and the teacher’s concerned one entirely. 

He has enough on his plate as it is. 

No sense in looking for trouble where there was none. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hiya thank u all very much for your kind words they mean the world !! i hope you enjoy this chapter and please do double-check the tags as we go (certain things happen much later in the story but some of the new tags are mentioned in this chapter) just to be safe !!!

He tries, really he does, to read through his notes and keep quiet. It even works. Somewhat. Yet it still is only half way through the bus ride home before his thoughts inevitably wander back to Rick. 

What the fuck is he thinking?

Why in the everloving fuck would he assume Rick’s looks had anything to do with him?

Why’d he let himself make it weird? _Again and again._

It really wasn’t too surprising that Morty didn’t have any friends.

The house is empty when he hops off the bus, his mother is working late and his father has taken to hanging out at a local bar most weeknights. God only knows where Summer is but Morty knows he’ll be lucky to see her before the week is out. She usually only swings by on Sunday nights, to do laundry or sometimes shower and have dinner. 

He supposes he should be happy that she’s made it out. That she’s free and enrolled in a local college. No, Morty _is_ happy for her. They might have never been the closest of siblings but it wasn’t like she was a dick to him all the time.

It didn’t mean it wasn’t still a little difficult. Morty is so fucking tired of being left behind. Of being the reason his parents felt like they had to stay together. And of course he was the reason. Summer was an adult now, rarely home and even less interested in what her parents did. Now it was just Morty they forced themselves to stay in a cycle of insanity and gluttonous punishment for. 

Sometimes he tries to remind himself that he isn’t _asking_ for them to. Morty couldn’t give less of a shit if they divorced or not, but he’s starting to think that the constant fighting might be a big part of all the head aches he’s been getting. 

At least the house is quiet now. He’ll have the tv to himself, can turn on whatever he wants without Jerry’s annoyance or Beth’s rolled eyes. It’s like they can’t even let him have a _show_ without criticizing it. He’s only half way through season one of _The Umbrella Academy_ so he isn’t in danger of having to find something new yet. Maybe he’ll even make popcorn and drag his blanket down to the couch, campout for the next few hours and pretend today didn’t happen. Morty definitely has homework he should be doing instead but this sounds so much fucking better. 

Besides, he needs to ice his face for a little while anyway. If Beth comes home and sees it as swollen as it currently is, she’s definitely going to harass him about where it came from. 

Setting off to find some frozen peas, Morty can’t help but smile. 

He may be alone but sometimes that’s a damn good thing.

⁂

Morty would be lying if he said he wasn’t anxious about going back to school. Logically, he knew that Rick’s behavior didn’t involve him and that everything would probably be right back to normal. His anxiety, on the other hand, was convinced today would be a fucking apocalypse. 

He’d gone to bed before his parents got home and Beth had already left, or maybe she’d just never came back, as he got ready now. Jerry’s car was out front which meant he was probably sleeping off whatever he’d drank last night. For a minute he tries to remember a morning that wasn’t like this. 

And when he can’t really picture one, the reality hits him once more. Settling around him like a net, trapping him here, in a sad house filled with sad people. _It’s so tight he can barely breathe._

Morty doesn’t bother with breakfast, tugging open the front door and jogging across the lawn to the bus stop. 

Eating too early has always made him nauseous anyways. 

⁂

Once again the day passes in a blur.

It worries him sometimes, how each day mixes with the following one. He hates that the only things that really stand out are classes with fucking _Rick_ and whatever pain Frank deals out. 

_That can't be healthy._

But Morty can feel an inkling of excitement unfurl low in his stomach, sure he's scared fucking shitless but it's still _something._ He can feel something besides the awful twisted mess inside his head and that alone is worth it. It feels dangerous. Like another thing he might end up enjoying a little too much. Like something he might begin to _need._

God, he really is losing it. 

As he stumbles through his English class’s doorway, the tip of his sneaker catching on the lip, Morty realizes something. Today is the very first day, since he’d transferred here nearly 6 months earlier, that Rick was sitting in his seat before Morty had even gotten here. 

The older teen offers him a lazy grin as he sits. It’s noisy in the room and a quick glance tells him Mr. Varner is running late. Morty doesn’t risk another glance at Rick, busies himself with opening up his book. That is until Rick scoots his chair back, body angling towards Morty. 

_Ah fuck._

Heart hammering in his chest, Morty forces himself to look over, to say something stupid and trivial and waste this precious time before their teacher walks in. 

But Rick has him beat, “Kid, you got a pencil I can snag?” 

Relief is exquisite, crashing through his veins and chilling the sweat gathered in the creases of his palms. Rather than talking, and almost definitely making a fool of himself, Morty simply nods and scrambles to find a pencil. It’s harder to do then it should be with Rick’s sharp gaze weighing heavily on him. 

“Thanks,” Rick murmurs, slender fingers plucking the pencil from his grasp. But there is a mistake because their teacher isn’t back yet and Rick hasn’t turned away, “So, any plans for the weekend?” 

If it was anyone else, any other person at this damn school, Morty would be certain it was some kind of joke. Or jibe at least. Rick doesn’t seem to be kidding, his face serious yet polite. A picture of innocence. Morty hedges, “P-Probably not a whole lot. Homework, stuff like, y’know, like that.” 

“Doesn’t sound too fun.” Rick hums, but it isn’t cruel. Merely matter of fact. 

“S’not too bad.” Morty offers, cringing slightly at the way his mouth rams the words together. Whatever response he might’ve gotten is lost as Mr. Varner finally appears, muttering a string of apologies as he does. Even though Rick remains silent he doesn’t bother turning his chair back to the front, content to make Morty as uncomfortable as he can it seems. 

That’s probably not the point. 

_It’s probably comfier to sit that way._

_Not everything’s about you._

It would be too fucking terrifying if there was any other way around it. 

Morty tells himself that their small talk has put him back on safe ground. It’s the truth, even if it goes down a little bitter. And isn’t better if he can avoid making yet another sociopathic football player angry with him? His jaw throbs half-heartedly in agreement. He’d forgotten how shitty it still looked when he was talking to Rick, but now embarrassment crowds his head, flushes his face. 

At least he hadn’t said anything that was ridiculously damning. Unfortunately, Morty spends the rest of class replaying their conversation just to be certain he’s in the clear. His notes are pitiful and he winces when he thinks of how fucking disappointed his parents are going to be when they get his report card.

Jesus, he’s so tired.

It takes a second after the bell for him to find the will to stand up from the stupid fucking desk. And when he does, Morty’s head swims. His vision goes dark and hazy, hands and feet tingling as his stomach sinks. There’s a nasty pressure behind his nose and he’s pretty sure _that’s_ what makes him pitch forward. 

A large hand grabs his shoulder, firm but careful.

There are words being said, he can feel their vibration, but his ears are ringing too loudly for their meaning to sink in.

Morty blinks until the haze fades back. 

Rick peers down at him, hands still placed cautiously on Morty’s shoulders. Steadying his still swaying body. 

_Should’ve eaten something earlier, huh? No, you had to wait until you could make a show of it._

_Pathetic._

“Shit, shit I-”

“You with us?” Rick asks, cutting his stuttered sentence off, the question stern enough that Morty feels his face heat. 

“Yeah.” 

Rick’s hands drop but they don’t leave entirely. Mr.Varner is saying something about the nurse’s office, Morty really should stop in before he goes home, otherwise, they’ll have to leave a message for his parents and yada yada. It’s hard to focus on anything when Rick Sanchez still has a hand wrapped around his elbow. 

“I’ll walk him down there,” Rick volunteers, eyes alight with a dangerous sort of cunning. Morty wants to protest, to jerk his arm free and snap that he’s just fine thank you very much. He doesn’t need a nurse to scold him about forgetting to eat fucking breakfast.

But at the same time, when would Morty get the opportunity to talk to Rick like this again? And there’s the matter of how warm the older boy’s hands are, a rough sort of heat that he can feel through his t-shirt. Morty hadn’t realized how cold he was until now, a derisive shudder skittering down his spine and drawing another cutting glance from cloudy blue eyes. 

“'K,” Morty forces out in agreement, needing to be out of the classroom, out of everyone’s sight, he can feel their eyes grate against his skin.

Even if it means letting Rick drag him out into the hall. Which is most definitely what Rick does, tugging and prodding at him as though he thinks Morty’s about to take a dive for the floor. The wave of lightheadedness has passed, though, and he’s sturdy on his feet. 

“Sorry,” Morty mumbles, unable to keep the word in.

Rick lets go of him, scowls a little, “I wouldn’t have offered to help if I didn’t want to.”

And what in the hell is Morty supposed to do with that?

_Ignore it._

“Well, y’know you, you don’t like, have to. I’m fine, just, just forgot to eat breakfast I guess? I’m not going to the nurse though, because there’s no, no point really. I'll just go, go get some food.” Morty tacks on. 

The creases from Rick’s scowl seem to deepen, the muscle in his jaw twitching in irritation. And really Morty wants the ground to swallow him up, eat him alive and whole. 

“Did you forget to eat lunch too?” He snaps, and now Morty really can’t fucking do this. Who the fuck is Rick to give a damn about anything he does or doesn’t do? They don't even _talk,_ they aren’t friends and Rick definitely doesn’t have a right to bitch at him about anything. 

“Jesus R-Rick, I’m so- I’m really sorry if I’m, I’m inconveniencing you, but I didn’t _ask_ for your help.” His hands clench into fists and he’s so fucking angry he wants to hit something, can suddenly see why people hit things. All because of fucking _Rick._

Who it seems has come to realize that he’s overstepped any boundaries Morty might possibly have. His sigh is a low tired thing and somehow Morty already feels bad, the anger leaving him even faster than it had come on. 

“I’m sorry,” Morty says miserably. 

“Nah, you’re right. Who the fuck am I to tell you what to do?” Rick offers a one-shoulder shrug. “I’m an asshole, Morty. But if you don’t want to go to the nurse’s at least let me drive you home, we’ll stop and grab some, I don’t know, some fucking burgers or some shit.” 

If Morty was someone else it might’ve sounded like a date. The thought hangs there unbidden no matter what he does to try and banish it. 

“It’s a, it’s a win-win, kid. You don’t keel over, I don’t have to worry about you keeling over.” 

Morty would say no, really he would, except Rick’s smirking at him. It’s so fucking cocky, so blatantly arrogant like he couldn’t even be bothered to hide it, like he _knew_ he was going to win. 

Morty wants to knock that look off his face. 

Can think of more than a few ways to do it. 

_Get it the fuck together jackass._

“Fine, but then you, you have to let me pay, okay? That’s only fair.” 

Rick seems to weigh his options, gaze running over Morty critically. Whatever he finds is obviously enough to convince him it isn’t worth arguing about, because Rick gives an exaggerated eye-roll as he says, “Fiiiinnneee. I’m not gonna turn down free food that’s for fucking sure.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> heyo ! sorry it's been a sec classes r kicking my ass but im back 🥺 thank u all for the lovely feedback it means the world ! i hope you all have been taking care of yourselves and drinking lots of water (if not consider this ur reminder to go get some before u read 😌)

Rick’s car is a little, old, fire engine red Mazda. It’s somehow exactly what Morty was expecting _and_ the farthest thing from it. A conundrum, much like its owner. He snorts a little, can’t help it really, when Rick runs his hands affectionately over the faded steering wheel. 

“What?” The boy asks, side-eyeing Morty in a way that’s nearly _self-conscious._ Today is fucking ridiculous and there’s no way Morty is going to make it out okay, but right now it feels too surreal for him to really panic.

He shakes his head in response, drums his fingers on his knees, realizes that’s probably kind of annoying, crosses his arms instead. Rick hums under his breath as he weaves around the other students trying to leave the lot. More than a few honks echo behind them but Rick doesn’t seem to notice. Absentmindedly, Morty realizes that he might get shit for this. From his parents or Frank and Brad.

Rick might too. 

But Rick can definitely handle himself. Morty has seen the punishment Rick deals out if someone actually pisses him off. He remembers the rumors a few months back. Whispers that Rick was privately trained at some martial arts place, that his dad was a retired secret service agent, or that he was so fucked up on _something_ that he just couldn’t feel pain. 

Morty obviously can’t speak to any of that and it’s not a topic he plans on ever broaching _with_ Rick that’s for sure. But it feels true enough that he doesn’t think it’s something he should worry about, at least not right now.

There’s music on, so quiet that Morty can’t make out what it might be, but besides that their ride to a nearby drive-through burger place is pretty much silent. He can’t even imagine how badly Rick must already regret this.

_Why the fuck did you agree to go?_

_You knew this would happen._

Oh God, he really did. Morty can feel the tremor in his hands against his ribs. 

Rick clears his throat gruffly, head turned in Morty’s direction, “What do ya, y’know, what do you want?” 

There’s another car ahead of them and the brunette is grateful Rick’s giving him a second to decide. Something cheap, but large enough to assuage the irritation still shimmering in Rick’s eyes. He knows, logically, that he has enough money on him to pay for whatever they want, but the fear of running out, of fucking the math up somehow, won’t fade away. 

“Uh, just a plain, plain cheeseburger?” He’s surprised that it sounds kind of great, Jesus, he really is hungry, “Maybe fries too.” Morty adds as a hint of a scowl works its way back onto Rick’s face. Appeased, he hums in acquiesce, grins a little, “So, while we’re waiting, what’s up with your-your face there?” 

And here’s where Morty realizes there’s got to be something more to the eye here. He’s come into class dozens of times a little fucked up from Frank’s insecurities, he _knows_ this can’t be the first time Rick has noticed it. Even his fucking parents noticed. So why is it the first time the teen is commenting? Rick isn’t exactly the kind of guy to keep his thoughts or opinions to himself, and he’d made small talk with Morty before so it wasn’t like he was opposed to speaking with him. 

“Ah, just a little scuff-scuffle with some-” He winces as his voice cracks half-way through the word,”someone.”

_Who in the fuck says scuffle?_

“Uh-huh,” Rick says impatiently, “I figured you didn’t y’know, punch yourself in the face.” The corner of his unibrow twitches upward a bit as Morty remains quiet, not offering the story that Rick is apparently interested in. The entire thing is off, like when you miss a step and feel air where you know it should be solid. Morty has the uncomfortable feeling that there’s something he isn’t seeing, a piece of the puzzle that would force it all to make sense. 

Fortunately, Rick doesn’t have time to prod any further. It’s their turn to order and Morty is content to rummage through his pockets in the static-like hush that follows the employee’s forcefully cheerful, “That’ll be fourteen twenty-seven at the first window!” 

He’s careful not to let Rick’s fingertips graze his sweaty palms as he grabs the cash. 

Morty manages to avoid the older boy’s gaze until after they’ve found a parking spot, until he has to turn and grab the offered food. And just like that he’s pinned, Rick’s stare forces him to pause, to note the incredulity in his face. 

“You really aren’t gonna tell me?” 

And okay, maybe it isn’t the best response he could’ve come up with but Morty can’t help his snort of a laugh, “Why should I? It’s not like- I mean it’s not like a problem.” They aren’t friends. The sooner he can get Rick to remember that the better it’ll be for all of them. Besides, it’s strange for him to even ask. Rick’s smart enough to have either pieced it together by now or have simply asked nearly any one of his friends who’d been witness to Frank’s bullshit for years now. 

It tastes like a ploy to get Morty to say the words out loud and that’s fucking humiliating. So he stays quiet and so does Rick, seemingly distracted as his fingers deftly unwrap his wax paper covered burger. 

“Eat.” Rick orders after a moment, aiming a pointed glare at the untouched food on Morty’s lap. 

Morty hastens to obey, if only because he can’t be expected to talk anymore if his mouth is full. It tastes nearly sinful on his tongue and he reminds himself that he really does need to eat more. He can’t handle another episode like today and not for the first time does he wish his brain would just _work properly damn it._ Morty shouldn’t have to set alarms to remember when meals are and yet that’s looking like his only option. 

He really ought to pace himself better, if the tightening ache building in his stomach is any indication, but all too soon he’s finished and Rick’s scowl is back in place.

_Maybe eating like a starving fucking animal in front of him wasn’t the best way to convince him you’re fine._

“Here,” Rick’s hand and carton of fries pops into Morty’s field of sight, “I fuckin’ hate their fries.” 

“Then why did-”

“Because, _Morty,_ I had a hunch.” 

“A _hunch,”_ Morty splutters, “That’s, that’s ridiculous Rick you’re just, just _motherhenning.”_

“Did you just use ‘motherhen’ as a verb? Gross.” 

Morty laughs again, dry and uncertain. Part of his head can’t stop fixating on the fact that Rick didn’t exactly _deny_ it. Warmth spreads across his cheeks. Ah, he’s really fucked himself over now, hasn’t he? Cramming a few fries in his mouth, Morty forces himself to look out the window, instead of at Rick. Or at Rick’s hands. His eyes. 

_This is probably all a trap. Don’t forget that. One of you needs to act sensible._

With renewed purpose Morty finishes off Rick’s fries and squares his shoulders, “Um, I can, y’know give you directions? To my house?” 

“It’s about that time huh?” Rick muses, a lazy grin tugging at his lips. And Morty has never been one for pictures but suddenly he really wishes he could have something to remember that smile by. Instead, he tells Rick his address and watches with too much interest as he shifts the little car into gear. Tendons flex across the top of his hand, highlighting flecks of off-white scar tissue, and maybe Morty should stop looking because _Jesus Christ._

Rick turns the radio up a little, just enough that Morty can make out muffled jazz music. He tells himself it’s a good thing he lives so close by, that they will soon be back to normal, but not a piece of him actually believes it. 

“Thank you,” Morty says because he somehow hasn’t yet. He hopes Rick knows the full extent of what he’s thanking him for, hopes he can get away without trying to put it all into words. 

_You just want to run out of time before he starts grilling you again._

Yeah, maybe. Maybe that too.

“Not a problem.” Rick pulls along the curb in front of Morty’s house. “But don’t make it a habit, kid.” His eyes narrow meaningfully and Morty feels the lecture coming on, reaches for his door’s handle in an effort to stop it. Unfortunately, it’s then that he realizes _both_ of his parents are home and a tendril of panic grips his throat, “Aw, fuck.” He mumbles.

“What?”

Silently cursing Rick’s intuition and his own loud mouth, Morty sighs, “Nothing, I-, I kinda wasn’t expecting my parents to be home so early.” 

“ _Oh._ You wanna go somewhere else? Or fuckin’ drive around or somethin’?” 

It’s hard, ridiculously hard, to shake his head and mumble that he was fine, that they were just going to be annoying but it wasn’t a big deal. He slips out of the car before Rick can try to get him to change his mind.

_You know he could. Pathetic._

“Wait, kid, one sec-”

“I’ve gotta, I gotta go. Thanks again, Rick.” 

The door shuts with a resounding thud and Morty jogs up to his house, ignoring the eyes he can feel burning into his back, the rock of guilt lodged low in his throat. 

_Hurry up and get it over with._

With a steadying breath, Morty goes in. 

⁂

“Where were you?” His mother demands, the question marred by the ever-present slur in her voice, her brow knit in concern that he can’t help but feel is pretty fucking conditional. She doesn’t even comment on his face, because that would be too much work, that’s a problem she isn’t ready to talk about, she’d rather just scold him. She wasn’t even _home_ last night and Morty’s going to be crucified for being what? Ten minutes late? His father stands right behind her, scowling. Morty nearly grins as he thinks about how _tame_ his parents’ anger seems now that he’s seen Rick Sanchez’s. 

“I missed the bus.” He mutters, as close to the truth as he’d like to get. 

“Okay, but who was that outside, hm?” Jerry snaps, beaming when his wife nods in agreement.

“A f-friend. He offered me a ride.” Not entirely a lie either. 

“Morty, you know you can’t just go riding around with strangers.” Beth sighs, but he can see it in her glazed eyes, she’s already lost interest in this particular fight. She probably didn’t even hear what he said. Something bitter and hot burns in the back of Morty’s throat. He remembers how tired he is, remembers how much fucking homework he has, remembers that he needs to remember to fucking eat, and it’s all so very _much._ It’s nothing special, everyone has to do it, but for some reason, he just fucking _can’t._ Not normally. “I said it was a friend, I’m not, not like hitchhiking Mom.” 

A weak attempt at a joke that falls flat so hard Morty cringes.

“It’s okay, sweetie. Just next time remember to let us know, okay?” Beth offers him a tight smile and strides back into the kitchen, Jerry on her heels like an overexcited lapdog. He knows how it will play out. He’ll go to his room to work on all of this bullshit, Beth will snap at Jerry, Jerry will throw a tantrum, Beth will threaten to leave if Jerry doesn’t, Jerry will cave and go down to a bar to lick his wounds, Beth will get shitfaced and pass out on the couch. 

And his parents have the audacity to wonder why Summer never visits. 

Once more, Morty feels trapped. It wraps around him like a second skin, clinging and constricting, weighing his head down as he marches up the stairs, forcing his heartbeat to speed up and his lungs to draw shallow panting breaths. 

Morty locks his bedroom door behind him and sinks to the floor against it. His head knocks angrily against his knees as a horrible thought crawls into his head.

_You’d rather die than feel this way again. You know it’s true._

Morty’s fingers dig into the soft flesh of his underarms, a harsh twisting sting that somehow manages to clear his mind. It’s okay. It’s just a rough patch, lots of people have anxiety attacks, he’s being dramatic and the worst part is he _knows_ it. As his lungs begin to relax, Morty decides that a nap might be in order. He could do his homework later when his head didn’t throb quite so badly. 

Knocking an errant tear off of his face, Morty climbs under the covers and squeezes his eyes shut so tightly he swears he can see galaxies.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hiiiii sorry my brain+school is kicking my ass lately so this was kinda slow in the making and it's kinda filler-y too but !! i hope u still enjoy !! thank u all so very much for reading and commenting it means the world !! y'all better still be taking care of yourselves >:( and bein as nice as u can be to yourselves >:( pls >:( u deserve nice things >:( i mean it >:(

Morty awakes in a panic, his final phone alarm blaring that it’s seven twenty-five am.

“Fuck. Oh _fuck!”_ He hisses, scrambling to his feet, trying not to wince at the uncomfortable itch of sleeping in jeans. It’s been a while since he has done something this fucking stupid. The sun is peeking through his blinds with vicious triumph and just like that Morty is cursing under his breath again. His sleep bleary eyes snag on a faded navy hoodie and his bag. That’s all he really needs, can half-ass some homework on the bus. It’ll be fine as long as he remembers not to panic. But the sound of Beth getting ready downstairs isn’t exactly helping with that. 

His tongue scraps against his teeth cringes away from the awful fuzzy, _tacky_ surface. He adds ‘brush teeth’ to his little mental list, skidding into the bathroom on socks he really should change. A quick glance in the mirror proves that no matter how much sleep he gets, the purple rings beneath his eyes won’t fade. That combined with the still-healing bruise gives off an almost Victorian ghost vibe which is kinda ridiculous. 

Morty barks a laugh around his toothbrush, reminds himself he needs to hurry. 

_If you wait a few more minutes you can run right out the door, Beth won’t stop you if it’ll make you miss the bus._

It makes it so much worse, God it really does, when his head makes sense. He thinks he might be a little better at being a person if everything that came out of his mind was insane, if it didn’t play this game of pretend.

If he didn’t want to believe it. 

Morty takes the steps two at a time, hoping he seems urgent enough. And sure as shit it works, he doesn’t even catch a glimpse of either of his parents. The grass outside squishes beneath his sneakers, still dew-covered, tells him that the ground below his feet is undoubtedly solid, _real._ It’s all a bit easier, now that he’s out of the house. Now that the sky stretches impossibly high above him. 

Easy to dismiss the panicked thoughts from last night, from this morning. Easy to pretend they weren’t what they had felt like. Morty jogs the rest of the way to his bus stop desperate to keep this mindset for as long as he can. It’s nice to feel like he exists. Even if it is temporary, it feels like it’ll be enough to get him through some much-needed schoolwork. If he just keeps focusing he’ll be able to fill out the assignments at the very least. That will buy him some more time and then all he needs is - 

“You gettin’ on or not?” The bus driver asks, leaning toward him and snapping his fingers irritably. 

_So much for focusing you stupid cunt._

Shoving back the urge to crawl under the bus' tires, Morty mumbles an apology and hurries into the nearest empty seat. It's never very full, a perk of living in a suburb without many high school-aged kids, but even the few sets of eyes he can feel are overwhelming.

_Jesus Christ, some people really weren’t meant to be people._

He tugs the hood of his coat over his head, hides away in the cloth, and forces his gaze to a semi-crumpled math worksheet. 

All he needs to do is focus and it’ll be fine. 

⁂

Just over two hours later, Morty contemplates locking himself in the bathroom for the rest of the day. It’s lunch and the idea of wandering out into the cafeteria, with no idea what he wants and no one to sit with, is a _lot._

But he knows the tension in his stomach, the tremor to his hands, will be fixed if he eats.

Not to mention the fact that he completely spaced breakfast again. Unbidden, he recalls the heat of Rick’s glare, that too knowing glint nearly hidden against cool grey. The harsh reprimand in his voice as said, _demanded really,_ that Morty eat. Being scolded shouldn’t be hot but he’s beginning to think that anything Rick does is automatically pretty attractive to his brain. 

_Except when he asks questions._

Thankfully, Morty hasn’t caught sight of the older teen all day. He isn’t looking forward to biology but the nervous fluttering in his stomach doesn’t seem to know that. 

_You shouldn’t worry. He isn’t going to show up. Not after your little fit. Why should he. No one would._

Sooner or later people will make their way to the bathroom and Morty’s hiding stall will be taken. And he does need to eat or face a repeat of yesterday. Only this time, if a teacher sees him, his parents will definitely be called. 

_Don’t let them open that box._

Clambering off the cool ceramic seat and onto forever dirty linoleum, Morty shoves his hands in his pockets and tries to make his way to the cafeteria as nonchalantly as possible. But it’s been so long since he’s eaten here. The last time he can remember well was when Summer was still a senior and he’d still had a table to sit at. 

It’s unsettling as fuck to realize Morty hasn’t really had lunch in months. He hates when this happens, when something in the real world forces him to recognize just how much trouble he’s in. This can’t be normal and the fact that it’s been happening for so long doesn’t give him much hope for it to go away on its own. 

_Remember your alarms. You can sort it out._

That’s right. As long as Morty pays more attention, as long as he makes sure to be diligent, this can sort itself out.

It’s an oddly inspiring thought. Makes him stride up to the lunch line with as much confidence as Morty Smith has. 

_Calm down, wouldn’t want Frank to catch you._

There are chicken nuggets and mac n cheese, as well as creamed corn that looks slightly rancid. He passes on the latter but lets the lunch lady pile the other two onto his tray, ignoring the way his stomach roils at the sight of so much food. With his head’s warning ringing in his ears Morty can’t help but let his eyes wander around the room, hates himself all the more for how quickly they snag on Rick’s eccentric hair. His stupid leather jacket. He’s sitting next to Toby ( _Toby with his stupid fucking tank top and his stupid fucking jacked up arms so close they’re nearly touching Rick)_ Brad and Jessica across from him, but he doesn’t seem to be paying them any attention. 

Skewed sunglasses rest on his face so Morty doesn’t look for very long, too terrified that Rick might actually be looking back.

His head laughs hideously at a worry that far-fetched and now he wishes he was still hiding in the bathroom. Maybe he can just eat in the hall outside his next class, if he’s quick enough no one will be the wiser. Or he could go sit at one of the empty tables and hope that no one notices him there either. What Morty really needs to do is make up his mind, the clock has ticked, the girl behind him clears her throat awkwardly as he stares into the mac n cheese like a fucking fool. He bites out a tight “thank you” and forces his legs to carry him out of this forsaken fucking room.

Morty decides, as he squats outside his locker with the lunch tray perched precariously on his knees, that he’ll figure out something, no _anything_ else to avoid going in there again. 

⁂

It’s quite frankly a kick in the teeth. To have to head into the only class he shares with Rick mere minutes after he’s gotten his ass handed to him by his own fucking anxiety. Morty does manage to finish nearly half of his food though, a small win but one he’ll take nonetheless. It’s enough to steady his hands and clear his head, enough that walking across the school to biology doesn’t feel like a burden. 

Everything in him is tense with anticipation as he opens the door and takes his seat. Rick isn’t here yet but that’s no surprise. 

_You keep thinking he’ll come back._

No. 

No, that wasn’t it, Morty just didn’t think Rick would go through the trouble of switching class all because of him.

_No one said anything about all that._

Maybe he’d just ditch for the rest of the semester.

Maybe Morty would too.

Either way Morty really should, or he was going to fuck up irrevocably. It would happen sooner rather than later and he really, really didn’t want to push his luck. 

Mr. Varner is the next to show up and of fucking course he has to stop and “check in” with Morty, pestering him with faux concern which definitely has some ulterior motive that the brunet isn’t seeing. Fuck, maybe his mom called the principal this morning? To complain about his face or the fact that he’d driven home with Rick, or that his grades were fucked and he always missed the fucking bus, or any other number of things Beth Smith could think of.

Blood pounds against his eardrums as he listens to his own voice grow terser and terser. He’s never been any good at talking to teachers but it’s even worse when he isn’t even sure why or what they’re talking about. 

Rick’s footsteps are loud, much louder than anyone else’s.

_You just aren’t listening to anyone else’s._

Their teacher pulls back awkwardly as Rick sits down, knees sprawling so wide that Morty has to squish his together to avoid them brushing. His sunglasses are nowhere to be seen and he wastes no time in dismissing Mr. Varner, eyes roaming over the man with cutting disinterest. It makes Morty snort again, because really the level of cockiness was un-fuckin’-believable. 

And then. 

And then Morty’s head wins. 

Because Rick doesn’t turn toward Morty, doesn’t offer a smile or a nod. There’s no small talk to be had, no questions or carefully prodding words to be said. 

Because Rick stares ahead, jaw taut and brow furrowed.

_AngryAngryAngry._

Like he can’t even fucking _stand_ to look in Morty’s direction. 

_It would’ve been a mercy for him not to show up._

It’s fine. He knew this would happen, it isn’t a surprise. It stings but that’s only because he has let far too much hope set up shop in his head. Morty opens up his book, squeezes his shoulders up around his neck, pretends the swarming black letters covering the page are something he can focus on. 

_You have to do it. Ignore him. If he can ignore you so easily then you should be able to return the favor. Don’t be a bitch. Don’t fuck this up too._

Morty’s teeth worry the inside of his cheek until his head quiets, until the words get a little clearer and Mr. Varner’s droning voice is noticeable. Rick doesn’t twitch as the brunet clears the sudden burn in his throat, as he pretends he has read the page and hurriedly flips to the next. Why is he so fucking upset? Rick was nice enough when he needed help and now that’s done with and Morty needs to get it through his thick fucking head. 

_You thought he was going to be your friend, didn’t you?_

_How? Not even you could be that delusional. You knew it was coming, don’t pretend. Nobody likes a liar._

It’s fine. He just needs to make it through this class. 

_And tomorrows. And the next day. And the next day._

Morty really fucking regrets eating lunch. His stomach churns and he can feel his mouth begin to water as nausea roils through. 

_You ran away from_ **_him_ ** _the last time he saw you. Ignored his questions and ran like a fucking coward. How could you expect anyone to want to be near you after you put them through all of that bullshit? That isn’t how this works. You don’t get to be disposable and demanding._

He knows that. He does, really. 

But sometimes Morty wonders if his family, his parents, have made him into something that can’t help but want attention like this. Something manipulative and wrong. 

_You can’t pin all the blame on them. Maybe you’ve always been a parasite._

It’s something like fog that moves between him and his thoughts, hazy but heavy. Slowly, so slow he never notices until too late, it makes him fake again. Takes away all the pain, all the poisonous things his head spews, but it isn’t a comfort. He _hates_ the fucking numbness. Hates the empty, meaningless feeling that rips through him.

This time, when Morty turns another unread page, he can’t even feel his fingers. 


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> heyyyo im prettyyy fucked up so ill edit this tmrw whoops sorry for all the errors babes 
> 
> also TW for panic attacks and relatively descriptive but not v severe cutting in this chapter as well as general romanticism/glorification of self-harm 
> 
> our boyos r dumb and thi s is long and Rambley

It’s a stroke of luck Morty hadn’t been counting on that the school had a pipe burst and flood the first floor restrooms, leaving everyone to enjoy a three day weekend. His parents don’t offer any explanation for Mr. Varner’s strangeness and Morty sure as shit isn’t going to mention it. They don’t have any problem mentioning how nice this break will be for _Morty._ How much time it will give _Morty_ to catch up. How this will solve _Morty’s_ shit grades. 

He does try. Especially on that first day. When the fog is still heavy enough to hide the bite of Rick’s silence. But it doesn’t last forever, it can’t. He used to worry that it would stay, stick to him and never wash off. But it hasn’t yet. He doesn’t think it can. 

Morty finishes up the assigned work, as well as the shit he’s been meaning to do from last week. He doesn’t bother checking over any of it, certain most of it’s at least a little wrong, but too tired to try and actually fix it. Summer says she’s busy, promises to come home next weekend. They all know it isn’t really home that she’s coming back to though. 

_She isn’t coming back. No one is._

There’s music blaring in his ears. Loud music. So loud that the textured ceiling above him swirls into a twisted pattern of shadows. It’s dark, very dark in his room. But only because Morty has strung his comforter over the regular curtains, effectively sealing every bit of sunlight off in what Summer had once dubbed his “weird little depression cave”. 

_Stop thinking about her. Might as well think of him._

No. None of that. 

Morty pinches the inside of his bare thigh with bruising force, the rising ache tramples over anything else and leaves his head blissfully quiet. It’s funny how quickly people can get used to things. He hasn’t moved in hours ( _maybe longer),_ has no clue what time it is, and is pretty fucking sure he might be going insane. But somehow none of that feels nearly as urgent as it should.

He’s comfortable here. 

He’s comfortable alone. 

It’s too hard for Morty to try and decipher what everyone else around him wants while still keeping himself normal. He knows it can be done, has seen how other people manage to function, but something is wrong or broken or missing because he just doesn’t _understand._

Maybe he’s just crazy.

_You are._

He turns the music up a little louder, digs his thumbnail deep into the crook where knee and thigh meet until it stings and stings and nearly burns. 

⁂

His parents snap on Saturday afternoon, his mother marching up to his room for the second time today (the first being to half force-feed him syrup saturated pancake mush) and informing him through his door that he really couldn’t waste every weekend holed up and jerking off. 

_Embarrassing. That’s what you are. They’re embarrassed of you._

Morty takes her advice, wanders down to the dog park, and pretends the chill outside isn’t enough to make him shake. He really should have brought a coat, his regular yellow t-shirt and jeans are definitely not cutting it. The chain-link fence is bitingly cold beneath his palms but there are enough people leaning on the fence that he won’t seem too out of place. 

He’s always liked watching the dogs play, the variety and number of people and animals that show up at the little green yard are always surprising. Not for the first time does Morty contemplate a way to convince his family to let him get a pet. A little friend who will lay in bed with him on Bad Days but also give him a reason to get out of bed too. 

It seems nice. He’s read countless articles about how much a support animal can help, has seen people become so much _better._ But Morty doesn’t care much about that, he knows that the simplicity of having something real to touch would be enough.

But it doesn’t look like his parents will budge.

They’ll tell him he’s almost an adult and he can wait until then. Then he can choose to spend his money and time on whatever it is he wants. But that’s two and a half years away. 

_Who knows if you’ll still be here by then._

Morty’s head snaps up because jesus fuck he really needs to get a grip. 

He fixes his eyes on the dog nearest to him, a lovely harlequin great dane with a neon orange harness. Their owner is a pretty young woman, no older than twenty, her tangled brown curls sticking out from beneath a faded camo beanie. Morty offers her a smile when she glances his way and can’t help but grin genuinely when she returns it.

_Pathetic._

“Y-you, _ahem,_ you have a beautiful dog! What’s their name?” He asks, the need to shut is head up momentarily outweighing his social anxiety. 

The woman takes a lazy step toward him before answering and Morty is struck by an insane jealousy, God how he wishes he could walk around like that, so effortless it’s almost cocky. 

“Her name’s Tonka,” She replies easily, “And mine’s Becca.”

“Morty.” He extends a hand over the fence, half-expecting her to ignore it. He’s delightfully surprised by the feel of her warm palm against his. 

“A pleasure I’m sure, Morty,” 

His cheeks flush with uncomfortable warmth because really what does one say to that? 

“H-how old is she?” He tries instead. 

“Almost two so she’s basically like a giant, but incredibly immature, puppy,” Becca teases as Tonka trots up to them expectantly. Her gigantic black nose has flecks of pink in it, flecks Morty becomes intimately aware of as the dog tosses her front paws onto the fence and explores Morty’s face with that big wet nose. 

Becca squawks in amusement, tries to hide it as she says, “I’m so sorry, she’s super sweet I swear, that’s just how she says hello.” The woman reaches for Tonka’s harness but Morty waves her off, lets his hands run affectionately over the dog’s head as she sniffs him thoroughly. She’s so much warmer than the fence, so much warmer than Becca even.

Something about Morty must smell funny enough as the pup spends a solid minute slobbering over him and Morty is _happy_ the entire time. 

Finally, Tonka drops onto all fours and launches herself at a rope toy Becca had left out in the yard.

Becca turns to him with another apology as Morty half-heartedly brushes bits of white and black dog hair from his hands and then - “Do you have any pets?” 

He stammers out a “no” as well as a shitty explanation of why he still lives with his parents ( _obviously she knows that you look like a fucking child)_ and they aren’t really pet people, he would absolutely _love_ a dog though. 

Becca shoots him a contemplative look at that last bit, eyebrows furrowing just a touch as she asks, “Well, have you ever thought about volunteering at an animal shelter?”

And holy fucking shit is that a great idea. 

_You never could have thought of it on your own. Always need your hand held._

He needs volunteer hours for his stupid fucking college applications too and here’s the perfect opportunity. The only issue is he can’t see his parents happy with him wasting time while he fails every fucking class. But frankly, he doesn’t give a shit about that right now. 

“It’s definitely not for everyone but if you want to spend time with some fantastic animals, I work there part-time and would be more than happy to get you started. If that’s something you’re interested in even. Sorry, I’m rambling and getting _way_ ahead of myself.” Becca smiles at him again and Morty’s heart does an awfully delighted little twist. 

“No, no that, that sounds amazing! I’m, I’ll have to make- I mean, I’m in. That sounds perfect, to- to be honest with you.” 

“Really?” Becca exclaims, eyes widening in surprise, “No pressure, seriously. It was just a suggestion and I completely understand that you’d need to talk it over with family. But I really do think you’d like it! Plus we could always use some quality help.” 

“Well, I don’t know how quality it’ll be…” Morty half-jokes, a bit of very real anxiety curling around his gut. 

_Did you forget that you’d have to be around people too? Fucking dumbass._

“Nah we’ll help you figure it out no problem! Besides Tonka’s a good judge of character and I like to think I am too.” 

It isn’t long until Morty’s shivering becomes apparent and, in an effort to escape the vaguely concerned glance Becca gives him, he cites it as his reason for leaving. They trade numbers and he promises to text her in the morning after he works out all the kinks, so they can set up a time for him to visit with the animals. 

He hates to admit it but maybe his mom had a point. Getting out of his room wasn’t the worst idea in the world. In fact, today was one of his best days in a very long time, if he was being completely honest with himself. 

At the very least it should be enough to get him through another tedious, tension-filled family dinner. 

⁂

But nothing happens. 

Nothing happens. 

Nothing happens at dinner (he even eats again, nearly finishes his plate and feels _good)_. 

Nothing happens after dinner.

Morty goes back to his room and nothing happens.

Absolutely nothing happens and Morty can’t breathe. 

There’s something ripping its way through his lungs. It shoves and digs and hurts so fucking bad Morty’s teeth cut into his fist to keep from sobbing out loud.

_He’s happy he’s had such a good day why is this why is this-_

Rick’s sharp profile flashes in his mind, stiff and unfamiliar. Not cruel but indifferent. 

_As it should be._

_What do you think you deserve?_

The question is cold, makes his chest stutter, an awful wet noise parting his lips. 

_This._

Each breath tears out of him, growing shorter, more desperate as the world blurs and darkens at the edges. He can feel his hands still. Feels them knot against the tops of his thighs. Can make out the outline of too tightly curled fingers. 

Morty thumps his forehead on his desk, lightly at first and then with enough force that he’s almost scared someone might’ve heard. It doesn’t hurt. Not in the right way. It’s like Frank’s hands, too dull and heavy of a pain to cut through his mind. 

_CutCutCutCutCut_

Just the compulsion - the very thought of _it_ \- makes his lungs fill greedily.

_Who could blame them?_

A distracted head is a fucking blessing for those poor things. 

He could do it. He knows he could. Can find something sharp and drag it across somewhere soft. It doesn’t need to be some ritual, doesn’t have to put it up on a pedestal.

_This isn’t the first time._

And for once his mind is right beyond any shadow of a doubt. 

How many times has he broken his skin with the edge of a nail, or left bruises beneath the force of angry teeth? Finding a tool isn’t going to make or break his fucking head. Whatever’s already broken can’t be ruined anymore by this. 

Morty’s heartbeat is still too fast but all other signs of panic have faded beneath the promise of what he is about to do.

There’s a little porcelain dish in the shape of a swan on his desk. It holds erasers and paper clips normally but he really doesn’t give a fuck about that right now. He wraps the loose hem of his shirt around the swan’s neck and snaps it clean off, a muffled crack the only sound he can hear. The jagged edges glint, so fucking sharp so fucking _close._

Morty twists his left arm, presses the longest point into the skin along his elbow, uses just enough pressure to hurt but not enough to bleed. He’s thought about this part before and figured that an elbow is an easy enough place to believe he scraped should anyone notice anything. Because most of all Morty needs to know that this won’t get out, that none of this will ever leave his head. 

His hand shakes just a bit, jabs the tip into flesh and leaves a cat scratch line along the outside of his arm. But blood isn’t spilling fast enough and Morty rakes the bit of glass in the opposite direction, mouth going slack in relief as red droplets well up across his skin. 

It’s so much better than a pinch or a scratch. So much more complete. It leaves him hazy and full, real but not so fucking neurotic. 

He makes sure to rinse his arm down with alcohol in the shower, the cleansing burn not completely unpleasant. Now infection won’t plague his thoughts and he can finally take a deep breath, head resting against warm tile as hot water pummels him into a shapeless tired thing. 

⁂

Sunday passes in a daze but a good one at least. Morty makes an appointment to check out the shelter after school on Tuesday, also makes up a white lie about his teachers offering some extra credit if he stayed late so that his parents won’t cause any problems. He’ll tell them the truth eventually but right now everything is fresh and new and he can’t let them trample it so quickly. With the itch building around his torn skin to distract him Morty barely thinks about what Monday means, who he’ll be forced to see, until the awful day is staring him in the face. 

He wakes up on time, marches out to the bus. His hoodie covers his elbow, the fresh lines from this morning. The lines responsible for the semblance of calm that lingers over him. 

_Just add a few every other day. Let them heal. You can control it, nothing is a sin. Not in moderation._

Morty isn’t sure about that but he does know that the thin lines will heal pretty quickly, the first two have already scabbed over. He also knows there’s gotta be worse ways to cope with things. 

_Not many. Not many at all._

Everything is easier with the weight of the tiny cuts. The bus ride passes in the blink of an eye and Morty can hardly care to remember why he was anxious to come back. As long as he avoids Frank, his face is finally healing and it would be just like Frank to come give him another reminder, he’ll be fine. And then tomorrow he gets to go to the shelter and the next day he-

_Cuts._

_You’ve already packed it away into your schedule, haven’t you?_

At least he knows how he’s going to get through the next few days. That counts for something, Morty thinks. Jessica smiles at him in passing and suddenly Morty’s reminded of all the reasons he still even shows up to this hellhole. 

_The two reasons you mean. Rick and Jessica. Perverted little freak._

Morty dashes his scratched up elbow against the door of his locker, the sudden burst of pain shutting that train of thought off nice and quick. He kinda wishes he could see Rick before their class, so he could convince himself it didn’t matter, certainly didn’t _hurt,_ and save himself some stress. But he’s fine. Really, more fine than Morty Smith usually is. 

Mostly just because he’d eaten a granola bar this morning and the lack of nausea on the bus had been fucking euphoric but still. 

He could do it. He could handle it.

⁂

He can handle it until he’s ten minutes into his biology class and Rick still hasn’t shown. Because how is he supposed to prove to Rick that he doesn’t give a fuck if Rick won’t even be in the same fucking room as him? 

His eyes bore a hole in the door like he can somehow will the older boy into existence. 

Another agonizing five minutes tick by. Now he’s missed so much of Mr. Varner’s rant that he really should ask someone for notes. 

But then - and really why even bother showing up at this point? - Rick’s knocking the door out of his way like it owes him money, stopping only to flash what’s clearly a tardy slip, and then drops into his seat with a huff. But it’s a rare day that Rick Sanchez is in a good mood so this doesn’t affect Morty too much. What makes his teeth clamp down on the inside of his cheek is the cool, appraising look Rick gives him. 

It’s not worth it, the risk of meeting his glance a second time, so Morty focuses on the hairs sprouting out of the top of Mr. Varner’s ponytail, the few strands missed by the elastic hair tie. It’s fine. He just wishes he hadn’t agreed to let Rick drive him home, wishes he hadn’t ruined the casual tolerance they had built up. But it’s really fine. It’s not like he was expecting something else. 

_Yes you were. Don’t bother lying about it now._

Morty’s muscles are so tense they’re shaking by the end of class, the strain of keeping perfectly still racing down his limbs. He doesn’t trip when he stands though. Stays upright and quietly steps around Rick as he heads back to his locker. His elbow doesn’t hurt at all and his head’s laughter is an ugly fucking noise. 

_After all this time you still don’t get it._

He just needs to get home. But his fingers fumble the combination and everything is so _loud._ When a hand taps him on the back Morty nearly bursts into fucking tears. But as he jumps around and finds himself inches away from Rick that doesn’t seem like the best reaction anymore. 

Instead, Morty scowls softly, takes a step back. 

“Are you pissed at me?” Rick asks and yeah the question sounds bored but there’s something disgustingly solemn about his face. 

_What in the fuck does that mean._

“N-no?”

“Are you sure about that?” 

“Pretty, pretty sure Rick.” He doesn’t mean to sound so tired, really he doesn’t, but he also doesn’t get why in the fuck Rick’s trying to make it seem like it’s his fault. 

“What, you get off on ignoring people or somethin’?” Rick winks, lips pursed in vague bemusement. 

Heat floods Morty’s face, trickles down his neck, at the concept of him getting off being anywhere near Rick’s mind, “No! Jesus, Jeez I-I didn’t mean to ignore you."

_Except you did. But he ignored you first didn’t he?_

“I’m, I really am sorry if I, if I did though. Didn’t mean to.” 

_Liar._

“But, if, well let’s say I did, you know, ignore you. Wouldn’t you be, I don’t know kinda - kinda hypocritical to be, um upset about it?” 

_Suicidal little fuck._

Rick’s brow narrows as he leans back, drawing himself up to his full height and effectively dwarfing Morty. “What’s that supposed to mean?” The blue-haired boy asks, arms crossing over his chest. But Rick isn’t stupid, the furthest thing from it, and all too quickly understanding sparks in his gaze, “Are you shitting me? Ohhh my God this is about -” Rick’s eyes roll but Morty swears he sees a bit of relief hidden in there too, “Listen, grab your shit and meet me out by my car yeah? I need a cigarette.”

Dazed, Morty hastily throws his stuff into his bag as Rick heads for the parking lot. 

It isn’t hard to find Rick’s car, and it’s not like his lengthy shadow is super difficult to spot either, so Morty marches up to him purposefully. He deserves an answer at the very least.

_Do you? No, you don’t deserve shit. Let alone other people’s time._

Rick exhales a heavy cloud of smoke, rubs the bridge of his nose with long fingers, “Look, I’m sorry I ignored you, and I _did_ you’re right. I’m an asshole and a hypocrite remember, kid?” He offers with a tiredly chagrined smile. “But Jesus Christ, you! You fucking ran out of my car like you’d seen a fuckin’ ghost or, or like I was gonna fucking, I don’t know, waterboard you! I didn’t know what I was steppin’ in and then the next day you show up after 20 hours of radio silence! Completely fine and with no explanation. So yeah. Maybe I was a little ticked off, _Morty_.”

In hindsight, Morty can see why Rick might’ve been pissed, but how in the fuck was he supposed to contact Rick? Let alone know that Rick wanted him to? He can’t read minds. But his head can only snag on the fact that other teen seems almost worried. 

_Not wanting another’s blood on your hands isn’t worry dumbass._

Morty nods slowly, like he understands, thinks about his words very carefully before he speaks them, “I’m sorry about all that too, Rick. But it’s all good, you don’t need to, to concern yourself over anything! Not, not like you did before I just meant -”

Rick cuts him off with a dismissive wave of his hand, “Kid, I already told you I’m not going to do anything I don’t want to do. And that goes the other way too. If there’s something I want to do no force in the goddamn galaxy is gonna stop me. It’s that simple.” He yawns abruptly as if what he’d said wasn’t making Morty’s heart slam into his ribs like some feral thing. 

He's really, truly, fucked.

The worst part is Morty believes it. He doesn’t think there’s a single thing out there that could stop this beautiful, reckless boy. 

And when Rick offers him a ride home Morty accepts that too. At least this time around he knows how badly he’ll end up regretting it. 

He supposes there’s a kind of solace in knowing how badly the worst can hurt.


End file.
